


the Christmas Carol

by Controversy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Controversy/pseuds/Controversy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so yeah, this is my first fanfic here. I'm pretty sure no one will read this, but I will still try to be nice and stuff ^^<br/>this is basically a result of me being exposed to the birth of Christmas advertisements and lights and everything. At first I wanted this to be a simple one-shot but then I fell in love with the inside world of Grantaire again (o Grantaire Grantaire, wherefore art thou Grantaire...) so I can't be sure how long it will be in the end.<br/>(I know it's only November, but in December I will be so sick of the "Christmas spirit" that I will probably be writing fanfics about Easter...)<br/>Summing up, we have Grantaire a forever alone student of art and Enjolras, studying politics and starting with his ABC thing. <br/>Please, leave comments even if you don't like my work, I will try to improve, I promise ^^</p><p>(and yes, I know, this title is a little bit cliche. but the whole idea of Christmas is a bit cliche, don't you think?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Christmas Carol

Grantaire was sitting in his flat, decorated as usual with paintings and drawings on the walls and a lot of mess everywhere else. It was after 4 pm and, outside, it was becoming calmer and calmer every minute. The unchanged look that the room had for about 360 days a year was disturbed by a tiny decorated Christmas tree, bought in a supermarket because he was feeling really miserable after a break up with his last girlfriend ever. It was just before Christmas a few years ago. His last Christmas in high school. His last relationship, there was no one afterwards.

So Grantaire kept the tree, called it Steve, and used it while all the other people were decorating their houses with awful things with colors entirely inappropriate for the decoration of their houses. The shining colorful lamps and countless statues of Saint Nicholas made December the worst month of the year for Grantaire, a student of art in a university in Paris.

Christmas Eve. Pathetic, he thought and reached out from his armchair in order to grab a piece of blank paper. It was not as easy as it seemed to be, the small tablewas covered with dirty cups and lots of old drawings that he didn't even want to see anymore. He stood up from his sofa and took a piece of paper from the drawer, made himself another cup of coffee, found a pencil under the table and came back to the sofa.

Until a few weeks ago, he could never predict what he would draw. When he was looking at the white paper, his hand simply started moving and his eyes could only try to guess what was being drawn. A plant. An realistic animal. A flying unicorn. A strange mix of different known species. People he knew. People he didn't know. Abstractions. But not anymore. Not after Courfeyrac took him to a meeting at the Musain.

He had to admit, he hated the idea from the very beginning. He never liked being with people - any forms of organic life to be honest - so going to a meeting where people would talk about how to make other people's life better seemed like a nightmare. But Courfeyrac wouldn't give up, so Grantaire decided to go there once and leave after 20 minutes saying that he didn't like it.

Was it a mistake?

He didn't leave after 20 minutes. He left next morning, after a party with the members (DRINKING with people was the only thing he would agree to do). But the alcohol was not what forced him to come the second time. And the third. And at least twice a week ever since.

Grantaire looked at the drawing that was being created by his right hand. Yeah, the same hair, the left eye starts to look similar. Every drawing since the first meeting. Where was his creativity? Original ideas? Anything?

The leader. The blonde angel whose eyes would melt snow. The strangely convincing voice that made Grantaire think about a different world. He would never get involved in such issues, he never felt the need to. All politicians were always the liars and thieves, all activists always had some hidden motifs. But that guy... He seemed to be cut off from the world. It seemed that the strange concept of freedom that Grantaire didn't quite understand was keeping him alive. And what was more difficult for Grantaire to admit was that the Leader guy was just absolutely beautiful. Not like I-want-to-have-sex-with-you beautiful. Grantaire was looking at him like he looked at paintings of Van Gogh. He couldn't quite explain why, but that man was a piece of art for him.

The sketch of the face was almost finished. Except for the blank space where his lips should be. Grantaire had no idea whether to draw a smiling, calm face that amazed everyone when the Enjolras appeared satisfied, or the fascinating face that appeared when he was explaining his ideals, discussing them and convincing everyone to accept them as their own. Grantaire had no idea which of those two faces that could easily belong to two different people he should use in his drawing.

He was looking at the unfinished picture and now, that his hand wasn't busy anymore, he could grab the cup and drink the coffee. He almost spit it out, because the liquid was almost cold and absolutely awful. After a while, he took another sip - and he almost spit it out again. Someone knocked on his door.

Nobody ever came to his place. He didn't like people, so he had no friends, therefore no visitors. It was fine. So what changed?

Maybe it was a mistake, someone knocked on the wrong door, some person that was joining his family for the night and forgot the number of the flat. Yeah, probably they will go away in a minute or two.

He took another sip of coffee. It was cold, but it still containing caffeine and Grantaire would start feeling it, working in his blood system. The knocking sound. Again.

So Grantaire forced himself to stand up and went to tell the mistaken person that they were knocking to the wrong flat. Yes, this must have been the visitors of the neighbors. They will probably sing and laugh until the next morning... He could already forget about drawing in silence. Fucking Christmas.

He opened the door and the first thing he saw was a present packed quite awkwardly in red paper with Christmas trees on it and in a pink ribbon. These colors don't match... - he thought absent-mindedly, when he looked up and noticed blonde hair. The exactly same hair he was drawing a few minutes ago. And eyes. The same eyes. Enjolras had a twin brother? Because his lips seemed to come from a completely different pack. He was smiling a bit, but Grantaire could notice a touch of uncertainty behind that smile. Grantaire kept staring at the other man and wondering if it could be THE Enjolras he knew, and was just coming into conclusion that it's really quite likely that someone secretly cloned Enjolras and brought him here as a very bad joke. Because what would he be doing here? Everyone was either with their family or friends, or on their way. That's why Grantaire was on his own.

\- can I come in? - yes, this was the same angelic voice that Grantaire heard shouting about elementary rights of human beings and arguing about how they are not respected in the society. Honestly, he didn't remember anything particular that was said with this voice. He just remembered the sound of it, and he would listen to him speaking for ages, never mind he couldn't care less about the ideals he was advocating.

Grantaire realized he was standing in the door and there was a living person who wanted to go inside. And he was just staring at him in amazement for god knows how long. Enjolras looked as interesting as Van Gogh paintings, but Grantaire seemed to forget that Van Gogh paintings didn't look slightly tired and surely frozen outside.

\- Sure! - Grantaire tried to sound as emotionless as he could. Holy Dali, was he turning gay???

\- Thanks... - Enjolras muttered, entered and looked awkwardly at Grantaire. - you know, I didn't really have what to do this Christmas, everyone is with their families, and the boys told me you're the one who will probably be staying on his own too... So I decided I'd pay you a visit... Because I didn't want to spend this Christmas Eve as usual, reading about politics... Now as I see it, it could have been a bad idea, sorry. I think I'll go now...

\- No, that's fine, stay. I don't really... Celebrate... Christmas, but it's fine. I haven't talked to anyone for ages now so you can stay. I live on my own. Come in, sorry for the mess, but... No one entered this place since I started living here, so yeah...

\- No problem. I brought cookies... Just in case... - he extended his arms with the package he was carrying and Grantaire took it to the kitchen.

Grantaire was conscious of how awkward this situation was. There was a guy for whom he had a - he didn't know how to call it. Interest? Passion? Crush? Or did he just admire the aesthetic beauty in how he looked, stood, walked, spoke, shouted, breathed... - certainly he had never felt like that before. So there was this guy, in his kitchen, looking around as if he was really interested in Grantaire's drawings and paintings that were on the walls. Grantaire was pretending to be entirely busy making coffee for them and he tried to convince himself that he didn't feel feel proud when Enjorlas spent a bit more time examining the drawing of an open book with a forest growing out of its pages. Having seen his works, many art professors accused him of stealing other people's works, but it was not his fault that he had no major style and every painting seemed to be drawn by someone else. Apparently Enjolras didn't think of those works being stolen - he was an Politics Major though. How could he have such an eye for art...

Coffee was made. There was no other way to postpone the need to have a conversation. Like grown-ups. Grantaire hated that already - he didn't like to talk. He would have loved that if Enjolras agreed to talk, while he would draw him once and twice and as many times as it takes to manage to copy this perfection on paper. That would take a lot of time.

Drawing.

Copying Enjolras on paper.

And in this moment Grantaire realized that, on the very top of the very middle of the table in the other room, there was his newest Enjolras drawing. And several more on the table. And the worst thing was that Enjolras was just walking in there, leaving Grantaire hopeless in the kitchen.

The worst thing that could happen just happened.

And Grantaire remembered why he preferred not to be surrounded by members of his species.


End file.
